The Day I Lost My Voice, The Suitcase Song
by Xyliette
Summary: A/U after 3.16. "And in certain ways he'll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery..."
1. and the sentiment there follows me

A/N: Since I don't have access to anything else I'm working on, I decided to get back into the swing of things with this. There's really no explanation, it just won't leave my head, and it will likely be two parts, but this kind of stands well enough alone. Anyway enjoy-

**_~-~-~-~-~-~  
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)  
- Copeland  
~-~-~-~-~-~_**

_"It's your father, Addison, I need you to come home."_

And for ever the million times she wanted to scream at Bizzy, there was something alarmingly caring and warm in her voice that stopped Addison dead. She was worried, wrought with anxiety, over a human no less. It was a completely new sound, and it was terrifying.

"Yeah," Addison swallows, biding her time. There's no way a commercial airliner in twelve hours will satisfy her mother. She wanted her there an twenty minutes ago, and all of the green envy in their dark pockets is going to ensure she's tossed into chaos long before she's ready. "Okay, I'll book a flight."

_"The jet is on its way."_

Addison's eyes fall closed. Of course it is. She wonders if she has time to pack before the scheduled car will be picking her up or if she should literally drop everything and scamper out to her driveway. Anger wafts out the open doors, a figure startling her into a slight scare. "I-that wasn't- I can-," she stammers resourcefully, and there is nothing Bizzy hates more. Speak with purpose, demand your time, be worth something.

_"Addison, I'll see you when you land. I have to go."  
_  
And cue the dial tone as the phone falls from her flittering fingers down onto the couch cushions, sending Milo away in a furry of lost hair and cat toys. No goodbyes, no indication as to what the problem may be. She could be flying away in the middle of the night because her father forgot to call the gardener, or because her father hasn't come home yet again, but there's still something else there; something that has her heart racing, her stomach into her throat.

Nothing good will come of this. God, she needs a drink already.

"Addison?" Sam questions, tilting his wine bottle to the right, then to the left. "Who was that?" He steps closer but she backs away, focused on an object behind him, entranced as she was all those months ago. "What do they want?"

He's never quite sure where they're at anymore. Drifting, lost, drawing each other back in. He's dating, she's snatching up any male attention she can get. But their gazes linger in deep, empty hallways, light from their offices spilling into the hall, markers of lonely lives. Sometimes he thinks he's crazy, other times he's positive that this is all just a rouse, a hoop they need to jump through to ease her mind, because he's in. He's so into this it hurts. Still.

But then, he's never been one to move on; to dash seamlessly from one to another.

So he's waiting (and hell, hovering), because it's the only thing that helps. After everything, being near her, that's what fixes it. The thing with Addison, it isn't leaving anytime soon, and he's done trying to force it out. He learned long ago that things come in their own time, and they go accordingly. He's not waiting per se, he entertains other offers, but he can't seem to rule her out of his heart either.

She always has been the most frustrating person he's ever encountered.

"Addison?" he tries again, "Tell me. You…can tell me." And sure, he's been an ass, and they're deliberately dousing the other in pain to mask their own, but at the end of the day he's still Sam, she's still Addison, and he wants to understand. Everything. "What happened?"

"I don't know!" Addison yells suddenly, surprising herself, stumbling back away from Sam. "Stop asking," she orders. Her mind is already spinning with all of the possibilities, getting more and more devastating by the minute. Car crashes, ambulance sirens, the streets she used to know so well. She takes a long breath, tries to ward off the sudden water in the corner of her eyes and locks onto Sam again. He's standing there looking like an idiot, and she wants nothing more than to go hide under his arms. But she knows better, this time. "I…have to go. Out of town. Will you have my schedule cleared for me?"

"Sure," Sam answers slowly, watching her knuckles begin to whiten in her deathly grasp. He could almost swear she's shaking, shivering like the rooms been inundated with a thousand pounds of frosty snow. But Addison Montgomery does not shake, quiver like a leaf in the autumn wind.

"Or…I can…do that. I'll call tomorrow morning, have Dell take Mrs. Lyman, maybe Naomi-"

"Addison, I said I got it."

"And tell Pete I can't watch Lucas tomorrow night- I need- pack-."

He watches her make a mad rush for the stairs, and he lunges after her, grabbing the railing as he follows, her suitcase already opened on the bed by the time he gets there.

"It's April, so…cold probably," Addison mutters to herself staring at the hollowed black space. She could give up and leave with nothing, buy whatever she needs when she lands, but she has an inkling she'll be swept up and shoved into something and then she'll regret it so she dips into the closet finding a old worn sweater, jeans that don't fit anymore, a dress that will need dry cleaning, flinging matching shoes (the pairs, not the selected clothing patterns) out onto the hardwood carelessly. It's going to be a clothing catastrophe but she can't see that yet.

Sam sidesteps another missile aimed at his head and takes ahold of her left wrist. "Don't let them do this to you again," he says seriously, her head already dropped, ashamed in anticipation.

"My father- The Captain," Addison corrects herself choking, clearing her airway, and pulling the closest skirt off the hanger behind Sam. There's not much to say.

"I'm coming with you," Sam asserts bravely.

When Addison says nothing in response, when she doesn't insist she's fine, that's when he begins to seriously contemplate his first mistake.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

He hates the money. Hates it in the kind of way that you can't understand unless you didn't grow up with any, unless your mother was working sometimes three jobs because your father was nothing less than deadbeat and she was damn determined that her only baby was going to be able to go to science camp all summer.

It's the kind of humbling that his present success cannot touch, will never hold a torch to.

She looks good in money, she looks comfortable, but she's never known any different so he tries not to hold it against her though it makes him squirm against the buttery soft seat; his skin crawls, inching, lunging. And it makes him wonder how the hell he just got on a flight where they are the only two aboard not including the staff that just poured him a tall drink of whatever Addison is having.

He can hear her sigh into her glass, and he groans. Her debilitating dependence on alcohol when her family is around used to be cute, it used to be a lively quirk in the few times they all encountered each other.

It was more fun when he didn't get it, when he didn't comprehend why. And in certain ways he'll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery, but it's also the thing that always brings him back to her.

Because she keeps beer in the refrigerator and one her absolute favorite activities involves a wayward pen and a scrap of the Sunday Times and nothing could be simpler than that. And then it jumps back into being complicated, but then he's always reasoned, she's complicated.

"Slow down, long flight," Sam warns her when she finishes her second glass as they rest leisurely on the tarmac.

"I hate this plane," Addison replies, reaching behind herself and refilling her own drink without alerting anyone who is already buckled in and safe. And though it's not the same one that shuttled her across the world, mostly alone, always ignored, it represents the clouds she loathes.

It's the nicest aircraft Sam has ever laid eyes on, but it's not the craftsmanship that she seems to be complaining about.

"Sam-" Susan smiles warmly, taking the seat across from them, reaching for the folder on the table next to her. "What a nice surprise. Addison," she nods.

"And the hits just keep on coming," Addison mumbles to herself sullenly, instantly wishing she had brought something to read that will keep her from launching into a tirade, saying something very ill-placed to the woman who she thought was once her only ally, the person who turned out to have to betraying loyalties. "Bizzy-"

"I offered," Susan volunteers as they begin to taxi, the plane cutting in. "The Captain-"

"Susan-"

"Don't talk to me about Bizzy," Addison says, "Or The Captain," she adds for good measure, spreading her hands primly over her blue dress, heels dug tightly into the floor as she feels the wheels lift, the plane instantly turning as it rises. For a moment there's contemplative silence, just the roaring engine, the wind, and her thoughts.

And then, "Your father had a stroke Addison."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Susan could tell her literally nothing of use (she hasn't been updated since she left, and seems more concerned about Bizzy's state), so Addison suited herself in the dilemma of incompetence with several more strong glasses of gin, unaware of the weary stares that accompanied every sip.

She basically advised him to not call unless he was dying. She should have figured that he'd be unavailable to even complete that chore.

And it flits somewhere in the back of her mind, that this could be the end.

But, she knows nothing. He could be up and talking already. Or someone could be calling his time of death while she treks across the country with one lifelong friend who hates her, and one she hates.

The safest compromise is alcohol, as always.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam takes her hand as they enter the car sent to pick them up. Susan takes the front seat, speaking to the driver, and though every firing neuron in his brain is wishing he stayed in Los Angeles, he follows her lead straight into a numbing silence.

Her eyes are glazed over, and her hair mussed from the hasty nap she indulged in. He's never seen her look more tired, and yet alert. It's fascinating.

As they veer into a sharp curve he finds his voice. "It'll be okay."

"You don't know that," Addison replies softly, emotions lost somewhere over Colorado.

And because she's right (like always) he shuts up again, sinking further into the chair, legs aching to be stretched. He figures they'll be getting the run around soon enough.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Since it's hard to shift out of loathing a person for eternity into some sort of familial compassion that's never existed, Addison chooses to carefully study all of the information she's been presented. Bizzy is off screaming at nurses, wanting more, needing more from them.

Her father is in a narcotic coma, fresh off from one procedure or another, Bizzy can't remember the names of anything and nurses are scarce.

"He said it was just a headache."

"Addison?" Sam asks politely, her relatives scattered through out the floor, no one else caring to be supportive. It's every man for himself in this family. "I stole this."

Addison takes the crumpled papers, edges already worn from hours of studying. "How-"

"An intern that scrubbed in on your father's procedure," Sam explains lazily, leaning against the counter as she reads the little news he could provide. So far all anyone has said to them is that a doctor will be in to speak with them shortly, and that they'd prefer to wait for him. Not exactly conducive to low stress levels.

"SAH-"

"Some people never show signs of any damage-"

But Addison already got her miracle for this lifetime, Archer surviving his parasites (not that he deserves it, not that she'd change it either way), and her gut tells her this isn't going to go like this. "Do- can we go get some coffee?"

"Addison-" Sam interjects as she takes off for the exit marked stairs, she's going to run. Damage assessed, cost-benefit analysis complete, she's not going to win here. He knows that, so he trails along behind her clapping shoes, waving hips.

"He said it was just a headache," Addison parrots for him, like she heard it first hand. "Will you call Archer?"

"I think you should. This isn't the kind of news you want some guy telling you."

"You aren't some guy," Addison reminds him, sliding her phone across the table. "He's in Europe, ignoring everyone's calls. I can't," she tells him resolutely, snatching the hot cardboard cup and heading away from his muttered groan.

When Archer answers with a jovial, "Sis!" Sam begins to regret his first mistake, and fumbles through his second, ending the call with ringing ears and a heavy heart.

It wasn't fair of her to ask, but it wasn't fair for him to invite himself into this traumatic weekend.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

He finds her halfway between floors three and four, head in her hands, body wedged against the railing. Wordlessly, he joins her, effectively blocking off the staircase.

"I don't feel bad," Addison admits, rolling her face toward Sam. "I don't feel anything."

"Archer didn't answer," Sam lies, the only reply he has. She doesn't want to hear what Archer said, his refusal to take a week off his book tour for "nothing". Sam knows that Archer is her brother, knows how tight that bond is, and there's no need to get her up in arms because her brother is too big of a tool for her to even realize it.

"Am I a bad person- no, don't answer that," Addison says, rethinking it instantly.

"You are far from being a bad person," Sam assures, clamping his fingers over her slumped shoulder. "It's not an easy place to be in." He doesn't know what happened when they were in town last, doesn't know what drove her to his bed, so it's impossible to say this wouldn't be the appropriate response. If it was his father, if he had a father, he imagines he probably wouldn't leave his bedside.

"If he dies-"

"It doesn't appear to be that bad-"

"I don't think I care," Addison finishes. She's too numb to want to scream that this is her Daddy, still too tender from their last encounter to force the right protocol. She can't go up there and tell Bizzy what happened, and calm her. She doesn't have that kind of strength anymore, so she lulls on the cold concrete for a few more minutes, head making contact with the frozen metal bars, leaning away from Sam so she doesn't lunge over and force her tongue into his mouth to take her mind off things.

Addison pauses pensively, frowning at Sam, her brain clearing itself of toxins. "Archer's not coming, is he?"

Sam can feel his forehead crinkle, but she does know his antics the best, "No."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

For Addison, jumping from the daughter to the doctor was a not a choice. She couldn't manage being on the other side of the fence, and without privileges in this hospital she choose to explain things the best she could to her mother, to Susan, after the real doctor left the room. Her eyes watch Sam though, crunched into a chair at the end of her father's bed, studying him take uncontrolled breaths.

The aneurysm was coiled successfully. There are no signs of vasospasms- yet. There are no signs of permanent damage- yet. It was all a waiting game, and Bizzy summarily dismissed her as soon as she stopped speaking, shooing her back to the house for the night. Addison was unaccommodating in what her mother wanted to hear (she wanted her perfect Archer, who knew about these things), completely unnecessary in the grand scheme of why she was even called out here in a panic.

She left without a hug, without a kiss on the cheek, without a goodbye, promising only to return in the morning.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam had seen the Montgomery estate approximately twice, and never to the full extent he was presently experiencing. It was usually him and Naomi picking up a withdrawn Addison from Spring Break, never making it further than the entry way. And now, now he was immersed in the delicate, ornate designs of Bizzy's expensive taste, and the smell of alcohol that just seemed to cling to the thick air.

"Stop looking at me like that," Addison instructs, sliding onto the least comfortable couch in the house, razor straight back, hard enough to be a church pew. She rearranges her legs under her and immediately regrets the choice as her blood flow becomes constricted.

"Like what?" Sam asks, walking through the room, trying not to touch things, studying the art work in every nook.

"Like you- Like you don't know me anymore. I don't live here," she emphasizes. This isn't her space, she's never been still here. The ceilings are too tall, and there's too much going on in every room trying to distract visitors from the actual ghosts that creep through the halls. Every square inch is methodically clean and hectic, she loathes it. Never a pillow out of place, never a drink spilled.

It's all unspoiled, flawless shades of cream and lilac, suffocating her idle throat.

They are interrupted by one of the housekeepers announcing that the dinner Bizzy maybe fluttered over in selecting is now hot and on the dining room table. Addison nods, smiles, and thanks the poor old woman who has been here since the day after Addison turned seven. She's not hungry, she'll probably just push her food around, but it's there and it will keep Sam from digging any deeper into the crevices of the serving cart or the ancient vase on the end table.

She can tell Sam is not particularly used to or accepting of the inelegant procedures of a formal sit down dinner for two. Addison has been at this table too often, mostly with just Archer and a nanny or sometimes even alone. Her fork strikes the edge of the gold banded ivory plate clumsily, and for a moment her breath catches at the thought of chipping Bizzy's dinnerware, but then she exhales realizing she doesn't care. She doesn't have to give a damn about pretty scalloped plates and ridiculous crystal glasses.

"Why are you here?" She asks as Sam spears a piece of warm asparagus hungrily.

"I'm your friend," Sam shrugs, taking another bite of the mouthwatering meal. He can almost understand some people's desires to live like this, after setting his smells on the dessert being prepared in the kitchen.

Addison stares back at him unconvinced. They haven't spoken lately, hardly outside of work, and yet on the one night she needed to be alone with this he manages to arrive with a bottle of wine and interrupt a phone call the likes of which she will never again receive. "You've been avoiding me."

"You've been sleeping with Pete," Sam answers, feeling the anger rise. This is why he stays away. She makes him want to confront, to fight, and deep down he's a peaceful guy.

"Yes," she clarifies for him, "Sleeping with him, not dating him! It's nothing. And I'm not shoving it in your face at every turn."

"No," he agrees, taking a stiff drink of the cold water in front of him. She's seeing red, nostrils flares, fists balled, and he's going to be on the bad end of the residual emotions of the day if he doesn't temp it down soon. "I've been unfair, but…this isn't easy-"

"You think it's easy for me-"

"Didn't seem to difficult to jump into bed with Pete-"

"You're jealous!" Addison accuses, standing up, red cloth napkin falling to her feet unceremoniously.

"Yes!" Sam laughs. She turned him down because of his past and flew to the worst possible available person in the practice. He doesn't know what's so great about Pete, not that he hates the guy, but this all can't be about Naomi. It's dumbfounding. "I don't have to like your decisions to be your friend Addison," Sam says after a second, watching her simmer. "Real friends," he emphasizes, "Get over it."

He sees her open her mouth only to shut it quickly. And then again, and then she's five feet from him.

"I'll tell Ingrid to show you to your room," Addison says, already withdrawing from their fight.

She made their choice, it's all he'll tell her if it escalates. And it's not like their feelings have changed anyway.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

It takes six doors before he gets a positive reaction, the slight sound of sniffling echoing behind the wood. He steadies the tray in his right hand, Ingrid looking at him like he was crazy when he asked if he could get the apple tarte tatin "to go", but she readied the dessert and pointed toward the hall where Addison had retreated to. "Addison, open the door."

"Go away Sam," Addison yells back, hiding childishly under her cocoon of blankets, her one private sanctuary renovated and updated since the last time she saw it. The only thing she recognizes is the tattered stuffed horse that she was given before she can remember. It's always been there, leaning lopsidedly against the bay window she used to stare out of and make silly wishes on hidden stars.

"I'm coming in," he announces, pressing the tray against the wall to keep it level as he reaches for the door knob. He doesn't think she's doing anything inappropriate like changing, not that he'd mind, but giving warning is just the gentlemen thing to do. "I brought dessert," he says to the lump on the bed, completely covered by an abhorrent floral collection that belongs in the fireplace across the room.

"Leave," Addison insists, punching her hand into the soft pillow beneath her head and then wiping her tears away. It's too much, being in this house, this place again, with these people, the only sane one refusing to help her when he undoubtedly knows how wound up she is.

"Fine," Sam sighs, setting the treats down next to the bed and marching to the door.

"Wait!" Addison yells out, muffled, already embarrassed by the pathetic level she's reached. She pokes her head out, certain she looks a mess, pink long sleeve shirt punched around her elbow, the fabric distressed. "Will you stay?"

"Only if we get to enjoy the dessert," he barters. He'll hold her if she wants to cry, do his best not to make a move though the way he can see down her shirt is testing him, and be the friend he knows he is. But the tarte looks like the one his mother used to make and everyone does better with food in their stomachs.

Addison runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it off her face, bundling it at the nape of her neck and tugs at the strings on her pajama shorts. These things she forgot, this outfit was here from the last time she stayed the night- freshman year, Christmas. Her legs feel too long for the tiny striped material covering them, her top too low not to show cleavage. But she wasn't expecting visitors, and though what she wants is snuggly flannel, what she has to work with is kind of revealing so she shirks under the blankets again, and pats the bed with a weary smile. "Don't worry, I won't touch you this time."

"Addison-"

"Don't—just- give me that." She gestures toward the sugary goodness next to him and takes it greedily. "I can't fix him," she whispers after a few sluggish bites, savoring the taste on her plump tongue.

"You could call Derek," Sam offers, already well aware that she's thought of it.

"It's just a stroke Sam, not…parasites or something." Addison tugs the sleeve of her shirt pulling it across her eyes, holding her arm in place, shielding.

"It was a subarachnoid hemorrhage, that's not nothing."

"He'll be fine," she says confidently. He's an idiot, but he'll be fine.

"Yes," Sam concedes for the sake of the truce, her voice strangled tenderly, fork dancing through her fingers.

"What if he's not the same? Cognitively?" Addison asks, twirling in the sheets, handing him her half eaten dessert.

"I don't know," Sam guesses. The long term complications for patients who do survive almost always include some sort of neurocognitive symptoms.

"I can't forgive him just because he's sick, I can't pretend it's okay."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam awoke wrapped around Addison, his right hand subconsciously very close to palming her almost bare breasts. He exhaled into her neck, rolled away, and they spent the rest of the morning in silence. But she was awake, she knows how he got wound up around her, and probably many other unfriendly adventures that their night may have held.

Regardless of his almost groping, her tolerance, he wasn't prepared for this blow. Dr. Montgomery's state rapidly deteriorated overnight, and he was taken into the OR again, this time resulting in the large bandage covering his head. Addison looks like she could vomit, Bizzy is pacing, and Susan paler than a sheet.

"I should've stayed," Addison whispers to him, outside Bizzy's stern glares and worried eyebrows.

"You couldn't have done anything any differently," Sam promises, taking a step away and leaning into the wall. It's been an hour and a half since they arrived and he's already tired, he can only imagine how she feels. They're waiting for The Captain to wake himself, but it's starting to look grim from the outside.

"What did Archer say?" Addison diverts, dodging, needing her big brother to come in and tell Bizzy it's all going to be alright. She needs him to come take the heat off of her.

"Addison," Sam mutters defeated. He can't tell her the way Archer laughed at him, the jovial mood he seemed to be in, not after seeing her last night, this morning so deeply involved in this. "Maybe if you call him, then he'll come."

"No," she gulps, diving back into the room to discover Bizzy gripping her husband's still warm hand tightly, Susan looking on enviously. She's never seen her mother this far from decorum, toppled off her high horse, and the idea that she may genuinely love—if not be in love with—her husband, despite all the bullshit, spins Addison into a confused daze.

"It was just a headache," Bizzy says again, hung up, her own heavy mind falling onto the hospital sheets.

"It wasn't a headache!" Addison yells suddenly, catching everyone off guard. "His brain was flooded with blood, it wasn't just a damn headache Bizzy, open your eyes! He's going to have permanent brain damage, he's not going to wake up the same person, if he wakes up at all-"

"Enough," Sam measures, taking her arm as Bizzy hunts them down.

"You don't talk to me that way," Bizzy thunders back. "I know I'm not as smart as your father or you and Archer, but I am not- you don't talk that way. Get out. Leave Addison, I don't need you here, I'll deal with this."

"Like you always do," Addison adds petulantly, being steered from the room by Sam.

Forty seconds later she has him pressed against the door of a supply closet they've never seen before, her lips searching his neck, fingers nimbly reaching for the button on his jeans.

Sam swallows deeply, encouraging her inadvertently, and his pants fall around his ankles, her hand already at the elastic band of his boxers. And he wants it, wants her to dip inside, to explore, to touch and tease, but it can't go down like this. He can't be the guy that sees an opportunity and takes it, because he wants more from her, and this is all she has to offer lately.

"No," he says bravely, pushing on her hips, pulling the zipper back up on the skirt she was ready to get rid of. "I'm not a distraction."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

When they land in L.A., Addison embittered from multiple rejections, Sam decides to take his space. He returns home, ignoring the familiar shadow on her deck that he knows to be Pete, and drowns his sorrows in exercise. He doesn't ask for an update on her family, she doesn't give one. They speak in front of the other members of the practice when, in the unfortunate event, they are trapped together, and he thinks that he could maybe forget about what happened thousands of miles away until Naomi storms into his office and slams the door shut.

"What's wrong with Addison?"

"You'd have to ask Addison that," Sam says, spinning around in his chair to face her.

"Are you what happened to her?" Naomi dares, Pete spilling the beans stupidly when he confessed that he was in love with two people but that there was always a problem. She spent the first half of the week stuffed away on the fourth floor feeling completely betrayed, but by Thursday she noticed that Addison wasn't looking for her anyway.

"What?"

"She's in love with you Sam, you know that don't you? And you what? What did you do?"

Sam pauses for a moment, more than lost, trying to decipher if she's mad at Addison or him for hurting Addison. If anything, he's the victim here. "Nothing."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam trails his ex-wife down the hall, unafraid of her fury, into Addison's dimly lit space, purple walls dancing with the quivering of the lamp in the corner.

"You two," Naomi indicts, pointing at the depressed room.

And where normally Sam is positive he would see Addison near a heart attack at this unearthing, she's choosing to face away from them, looking out the window.

How? Why? When? Naomi wants to know, but Sam won't answer and Addison may very well be a mannequin over there for all the help she's providing. Finally she turns around, face ashen, posture stiff. He knows in an instant, that look, the wild fear in her eyes. That's not Naomi, it's bigger than that. It's epic, monumental.

The Captain is dead.

"You really are the worst person in the world," Naomi tells her meaningfully, it's intended to carve deep, but instead it seems to sit on the surface of the dense air in the room.

"Yeah," Addison nods her compliance, it's not like they both don't think it at this point.

"I can't believe you."

"Okay," Addison responds morosely, clearly in another place.

Naomi isn't one aggravated foot out of the room before Sam pushes forward, into her territory. "What happened?"

And for once, she tells him. "He's awake."

The relief that wishes to wash through him is forbidden by her anxiety, however. No matter how angry he is that they aren't together, that she jumps him at the wrong time, it's not a situation you wish on someone.

"I have to go…back," Addison says to herself, instantly hating the idea of another confrontation, of having to come to terms with everything that's happened in her life for his sake instead of stuffing it deep inside where it can't pop out.

"I'll have Dell take your patients," Sam replies, hand already fishing for his phone.

And when she shouldn't ask because of what has happened, the resurgence of greedy lust, she does anyway. She can't do it alone, and Archer likely will not surface until everything is peachy again.

"Will you come with me?"

Sam bobs his head in agreement, voice lost, ready to endure yet another mistake in the name of being a man she can actually count on when things get hard. He's a good friend, after all.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**


	2. love is a drink

A/N: I seem to be losing the ability to write at standard hours of the day. So I apologize for the delay, and regret to inform you that I have gotten so longwinded in my break from writing that this will require yet another part, hopefully shorter, hopefully with a better turnaround time, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Thanks for sticking around and letting me do my crazy little thing, enjoy-

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)  
Copeland  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

It took Addison all of three seconds to immediately regret the verbal regurgitation that resulted in her asking, nearly begging Sam to fly back to Connecticut with her. But without Archer, whose agent assures her he has no plans of returning soon (she couldn't call him), she just needed, plain and simple. But now, his luggage rolling across her hardwood floors hours later, sun setting into the tumultuous ocean, she's pretty positive that regardless of her emotional state this is a bad idea.

"It's okay- I can do this," she begins, nodding convincingly. "You have a busy day tomorrow and Maya-"

"Maya is busy playing house, and I cleared my schedule already."

"Sam- I think, maybe we should take some space, keep our distance. Naomi...and, it's probably best if I go alone, stay for a little while."

"How long is a little while?" Sam asks, pushing the handle of his boring black suitcase back in.

"I don't know, if we go together- we aren't together. I'm with...Pete and you're...doing what you want. People will get the wrong idea- I can't handle that right now."

The constant backtracking, the luring tug she has on him is growing tiresome, and he's done playing these games where they get to go until she says they stop. He watches her wind her bracelet around her wrist for a few seconds before making a decision. "I'm going."

"Sam-"

"Not really a negotiation," he declines, heading toward the door. "I'm your friend," he calls over his shoulder. "I don't care what they think."

Addison exhales loudly, hair falling out of the loose hold of the clip at the back of her head. "Makes one of us."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

After having been shuttled across the country in a private jet Sam finds himself slightly disappointed by the first class service of their nonstop flight. Possibly, largely due to the fact that Addison keeps smiling at the waitress bringing her drinks as he watches helplessly from across the aisle. She's snuggled up the to side of the window, putting even more space between them, and he can't break the collective silence in the dark cabin, he can't be brave enough to even use his own voice.

So he settles for the paperwork he brought along as light reading material and finds a sigh of relief when her eyes drift off, her glass empty after only three trips.

So far, there are slight improvements. Not that he'd particularly mind the trip going the same way. Vanessa was history after they returned, and though Addison doesn't know it, he feels freer in his mind to let whatever be, be. Candidly speaking, however, now that Naomi knows something has happened (never the whole story) he feels like they should just go for it, try it out, see if this whole mess was even worth the pain.

They owe themselves that much, he thinks. But then, history suggests that Addison rarely takes what she's owed, instead preferring the most hurtful paths that wind toward an ending.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"He's awake, that's a good sign," Sam begins, as they jump into a towncar headed straight for the hospital. The driver will take their luggage to their destination, and in some ways hanging out with Addison has always been like being on vacation. The amenities, the locations, the excitement, and usually the company.

"Don't-" Addison warns, holding up a hand. "-bother," she finishes in a yawn. It's barely five in the morning, way before visiting hours, and this is the last place she wants to be. Hanging on that tightrope of not knowing exactly how to feel, but knowing that the anger surging is most definitely not apropos, but again she and her father have never had the right kind of relationship.

"I'm sure he's fine," Sam soothes, checking her rigid posture. "Really Addison-"

"Stop," she tries again, this time more demanding. Ever since the call she can't find it in herself to care whether or not The Captain is okay, mostly she's just enraged that he had such little decency to put them all through this and then just wake up, easy as that.

"Fine," Sam gives, stretching against his seatbelt. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It what?" Addison asks dismissively, fussing over her limp curls in a mirror she pulled from her purse. Bizzy would definitely not approve of this mess.

"Naomi," Sam replies, unable to keep the hint of joy out of his mind.

"I can't do this right now," Addison informs him, mind focused on getting there quicker, on finding out the outcome sooner so she can assemble some sort of game plan, whether that be retreating to L.A. to hide again, or figure out some sort of quasi way she can stand to have a relationship with someone who is supposed to know her the best, and yet has no clue as to who she is.

"Ok," Sam agrees, rubbing the top of his head. It's not the time, definitely not the place, but he's on pins and needles.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Watching her mother fawn over something other than flowers, alcohol, and Susan's brilliant charity plans was not something Addison ever thought she'd see in her lifetime. But there she is, clutching The Captain's hand like it's going to save them, brushing a chunk of once reddish hair off his forehead.

And if she didn't know better, if she hadn't experienced the contrary for the last forty years, she'd say they were madly in love. Because she knows the look he's giving her, the way Bizzy's clinging to him, she knows it too well.

"Addison?" Sam pipes up from behind, tucking his hands into his pockets. Somehow he managed to be under-dressed for this event last time, but now he's prepared. He probably should have known better, and if he weren't consciously trying to impress her family for implied reasons, he probably would have stuck with jeans.

"I can't," Addison parrots softly, gripping her bag tighter, metal clinking together in the quiet, secluded hallway that The Captain has been moved to. "I can't do this."

And she hates the way the gray issues in her life, in her family, usually strike down in boring black and white.

"Yes you can," Sam nods, pushing her forward a few weak steps, before spinning her around to face him. "Look, I don't know what happened- before, but this, you can do this. They'll understand, it's all water under the bridge."

Addison finds his eyes for the first time in days and whispers, "You have no clue what you're talking about."

"They're reasonable people," Sam says, phrasing it differently. This is what happens in crisis situations. Who you are, what you said, it all goes out the window in place of the support that needs and should be given.

"Oh Addison, you're here," Bizzy smiles cheerfully. "We finally got moved out of that dreadful, dreary room. You'd think with all the money we've donated they'd be able to afford something better than canvas pillowcases. Come in," Bizzy invites proudly. Maybe it wasn't only a headache, but he is awake, and he is fine.

"You shouldn't be here," Addison tells Sam before she is ushered away into the lion's den.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

In the fourth hour of their journey into tension land, Sam takes pity on Addison and whisks Bizzy away for a quick cup of coffee when Addison's head looks like it may explode. All they've done is talk gardens, horses, and wine while The Captain wavers in and out of sleep and lucidity. As soon as the quick tapping of her mother's heels are gone, Addison immediately seizes the chart from the bedside and begins reading furiously, as if the paper may light on fire at any second and singe her fingers.

No neurological changes to speak of, nothing concerning, it simply took him a while to wake up. His blood pressure is a little high, he's complaining of pain, but the rest of the labs appear normal and as far as she can tell they are only holding him because he is who he is and they wouldn't want to risk kicking him out of the hospital that he practically built.

"I'm glad you came," The Captain says, before clearing his scratchy throat.

"Bizzy," Addison explains lazily, forcing her brain to smudge the lines in the chart to something more interesting, something more life threatening.

"Still, I'm glad. I know I don't deserve it."

With the briefest of attentions caught, she eventually looks up and waits for more.

"This experience Addison, it's changed my mind about a lot of things. I'm not proud of what I've done, especially with you and Archer. I'm getting a second chance, to make things right."

"No," Addison mumbles to herself. She literally can't go through the trauma of reliving her childhood and helping him repair the damage, some so extensive she still can't figure it out.

"You don't have to forgive me, just give me another shot. We used to have fun together."

"I was a child," Addison retorts. A stupid, naïve, innocent child who ate out of the palm of his hand. But she's not that person anymore, no matter how charming and enticing the offer sounds.

"Addison," The Captain sighs. She's always been difficult to persuade, to nudge out of what she thinks is right, and he knows he's partly to blame for that. The stubborn quality she possesses inherently, but also how quick she is to shut herself off to people and opportunities. She's done, for the moment, and there's no use in pushing. "Just don't leave, not yet."

And with that he pushes a few rounds of the sedative Bizzy insisted he have and flies back to dreamland.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Dinner is stilted, forks clattering along plates when Addison accidentally tosses her entire setting into the air. It's the first time Bizzy has returned home since the big event, and Addison thinks that even with whatever she and Sam are doing, it would still be better that they be alone enjoying this disgusting meal of goose and tart, unmatched wine than with the Cheshire cat at the opposite side of the room.

"So Samuel, tell me why you joined us," Bizzy dives in with a coy smile, irking Addison. Her mother thinks everything is fine now, that it was a fluke, that things can positively go back to exactly how they were before. And she'd never believe Addison if she announced the opposite.

"I- uh, thought it would be nice for Addison to have a friend."

"Yes," Bizzy agrees. "Where is Naomi?"

"She had a few patients that needed her," Sam answers stiffly, reaching for his collar and searching Addison who is several place settings away at the large table. They must have used a smaller dining room last time, because he doesn't remember being so distinctly frightened by the larger than life artwork hanging from the paneled walls, he can't recall feeling like he had to yell to be heard.

The house is designed to specifically remind you of how insignificant you are.

"I see," Bizzy smiles triumphantly, returning to her dinner, paying no mind to Addison when she manages to topple over her water glass and soak the fine lace and delicate wood underneath it.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

The soft knock at her door is something she wishes she could ignore, wishes she could pretend to be asleep, but he knows her well enough to know that she's not, and she knows well enough not to leave gentlemen suitors out in the hall where anyone in the house can very well observe. So she rises, tugs at the string of her most comfortable silk pajama pants, and trips over the rug on her way to the door.

She had to praise her mother when she showed her the décor of her new room (like she stayed in a guest room last week), the suffocating clutter devoid of any personal effects. In fact, she hates it, loathes that this is decidedly what her taste is through someone else's mind. The bed is too big to be remotely warm, the colors too bright to be soothing, and she feels like the whole design is actually meant to keep her on the edge of exploding.

It didn't help that every time she turns around Susan is there, pouring drinks, answering calls, arranging things while her mother looks on approvingly. She's not meant to measure up, she just didn't know that until now.

As she pulls back the door, she ponders the acceptable ways to say she is staying at a hotel from here on out. A hotel with heavy blankets and heavenly pillows, a hotel with a fully stocked bar and no need for thick meals that sit in her stomach like a ball of cement.

"Thought maybe you'd like some company," Sam shrugs at her, pale blue shirt deliciously tight on his form.

Addison resigns to the bed they shared a week ago and pulls her martini from the bedside table taking a long sip. There's a bottle of reserve vodka in the dresser that she snatched from the stash in the kitchen, just in case the night needs to go that way. Not that anyone in this house would bat an eyelash, not that anyone would care here except Sam, as he clearly demonstrates by pulling the glass out of her hand and finishing it off so she can't.

"Talk to me." He's not used to her being this wound, never this quiet, in her own head. It's kind of scary, and he needs a smile, or a chuckle, or that weird frowning thing she does to feel a little better about agreeing to this trip. He wants to hear her ramble, and rationalize, plot and scheme about the happenings, but so far she watches with mock interest.

"There's nothing to say," Addison denies, sliding against the pillows, choosing to face away from him, afraid that his gentle voice and pleasant hands will coax stories out of her that she isn't ready to share.

Because Sam thinks they are decent people, because Sam believes that they are parents, who love their children enough to not actively deceive and hurt them. But Sam doesn't understand this kind of evil, Sam has a clear view of who she is and where she came from and she's not about to shake that notion.

Besides, it's always easier to lie.

"I'm no Naomi," Sam starts, lying down behind her, careful to keep his hands to himself for the time being. "Whatever happens here, stays here," he eases instead, sliding a fraction of an inch closer, itching to reach out and caress her shoulder, smooth her frazzled red hair.

Despite having a leg to stand on that Sam doesn't know he possesses in this fight, Addison rolls over, and looks at him straight on, mouth turning into a uneasy smile. She's got something that will shut him up for the next few hours, at least. "I wish he was dead."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"About last night," Addison exhales, faking a grin as her mother looks on from the entryway as they stall further back. Time for damage control.

"You were upset," Sam decides for her, nodding compassionately. "Stress talking."

"Yes," Addison nods. And in some respect that was the day crashing down, and no, she doesn't want to know what Bizzy would be like with The Captain dead, but deep down, it was also utterly sincere.

She wants the opportunity to wash her hands clean once and for all.

"Stress," Addison swallows, shirking away when his fingers graze her lower back.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"Addison, what are you doing bringing that man here?" Bizzy asks hurriedly, clutching her coffee (laced, Addison suspects strongly).

"Sam?" Addison squeaks, looking across the cafeteria.

"What are you trying to pull?"

"No-thing," Addison stammers, pretending to be confused. The question is, what does Sam know? What exactly has he been told to want to accompany her two weeks in a row now? The isolation routine is nothing new. It's them against the world. _They don't understand us, Addison. They don't understand money._

"You won't ruin us- Samuel, good coffee here," Bizzy switches easily, raising her cup.

"Better than St. Ambrose," Sam agrees, joking while Addison slinks further into retreat.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"You came back," The Captain notes, hoisting himself higher against the bed, listening to his wife yelling at a nurse down the hall. He flat out asked Samuel to leave the room, get him some ice, and Sam and his manners obliged willingly.

"Look," Addison says determinedly, "I know you saw your God or whatever, but I...we can't just jump into happy family life. You- you came to L.A. allegedly for me, and then you drug Bizzy out there, and you just...left again, not that I should have been surprised."

"You were upset, I was giving you space."

"I can't do this," Addison announces, folding her hands over her lap, doing her best to remain calm. "I won't."

"I know I wasn't there, I know I was never there Addison, but if you give me a chance-"

"I don't need a father anymore!" Addison erupts, rising from her chair strongly. "When I needed a father you were off screwing anything that moved, and making me promise not to tell anyone. You threw away our time together, why should I give you that back? Give me one good reason, just one," Addison demands, palms flexing, calves already aching from marching back and forth all week long.

"Addison-"

"One," she echoes, voice much smaller this time, resembling a much fragiler version of her young self.

"I see you still hate me," The Captain sighs, hoping that this near death experience would have changed the dynamic.

"Yeah, well, some things never do change," Addison remarks offhandedly, chasing flitting fingers through her hair.

"I don't have to explain myself to you-"

"None of my business," Addison gives, throat starting to tighten. She's gotten as much of the story as she'll ever get from either one of them. It leaves a lot to be desired. "This," she nearly growls pointing between them, as Sam come rushing back down the hall. "I thought this was always my fault, for taking her side, and now-" she chuckles to herself. Now, she has no idea anymore. She shouldn't have been fighting for sides, she shouldn't have been struggling at all, because what was once about her, all of the lies, have nothing to do with her.

"Your ice," Sam exhales, setting the clear container on the bedside table, "Dr. Montgomery."

"We're leaving," Addison tells him, choosing not to tell him if she'll ever return, it's time for someone else to live in the hell of anticipation.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

If she would have found an acceptable gentlemen at the age of 18, and decided that she wanted to settle down and spend afternoons at the club and nights hosting parties, they wouldn't have cared. If she wanted to run off and tour the world, tossing their money out windows, no one would have noticed. But she wanted to be a doctor, she wanted his recognition. She wanted him to stand up and clap when she finally made it through the never ending years of residency and fellowships. But he couldn't be bothered, and Bizzy certainly had no idea what she was up to and how important it was.

Once he read one of her published articles in a journal and emailed her the little changes he would have made.

And that was the most she ever got, until L.A.

So to wrap her head around a relationship with a father, a real one, it's not something that can easily be accomplished. It's too little, too late. Because the other way runs risks to high for her liking, the cost of failing, of being failed, there's no number large enough to encompass that kind of damage.

"You ride?" Sam asks, sneaking up behind her, poking his head over the stable door.

"You followed me out here," Addison mumbles, tightening her hold on the latch.

"I wanted to make sure you were alright, you won't talk to me Addison."

"Do you ride?" Addison asks, lips pursed. Sure, she hasn't been on a horse, not her family's beloved, special horses, in decades, but she thinks she could maybe hold her own, if she needed the escape that badly.

"No," Sam laughs, peering in at the tall gray horse.

"I just needed some air, I- can't get any perspective."

"I can help," Sam offers willingly. The more he sees of the house, of the estate, and the people in it, the more fascinated he is. Some people really live like this, and it is far removed from a fairytale.

"He's coming home this afternoon," Addison sighs, they haven't been back to the hospital to confirm it, however, she's pretty sure there's a quick gathering being put together to celebrate his return as they speak.

They were supposed to leave yesterday morning, the ticket in Sam's luggage say so, but yesterday came and went with an hour long tour, and a quiet dinner followed by many drinks and quick hand of pinochle. And when Bizzy had too much, when she dropped her glass on the dark rug, Addison was the first to reassure her when she blamed the cheap crystal for her faults.

"You stayed," Sam deduces smartly, quickly glancing around at the busy trainers and helpers before stealing her hand and fastening it to his as he pulls her away from the commotion and strong scent of leather coming from the tack room.

"I want to leave," Addison says softly as they head toward the vineyard, winding through shallow hills and deep curves, deeper and deeper into the place where she used to hide as a child. When Bizzy got too ridiculous, when the fighting was unbearable, she'd take off as fast as her spindly legs would carry her, and wait for Archer to come and retrieve her, tell her it was safe to return.

They'd never touch her, the yelling was never directed toward her, they just never noted when she was trapped in the room, trapped between them like a puppet.

They don't see her at all.

"Let's walk," Sam suggests, his feet stomping into the well traveled path. After the canyon incident there have been less hikes, but for a while there were more walks on the beach, and sometimes things feel safer the further you get from them.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"I hope you know where we are," Sam teases, as they come to a halt, tangled in far reaching vines and dwindling sunlight. It'll probably be dark on the way back, but the worst thing that could hurt them out here is a bird.

"I used to come here all the time," Addison assures him, when she could wrangle out of whichever nanny's grasp. And eventually, they stopped worrying. She always returned, sometimes with stained knees and muddied elbows, but alive just the same. "We could come back in August and steal all of the grapes," Addison smiles, pointing to the tiny buds beginning to shoot out of the plants. "I would sit out here and pick at them, and Bizzy would tell me that we had workers to do that, and if I wanted to so badly that I could join them. I did," Addison smiles. Only once. She learned her lesson, but it didn't stop her from sneaking away and pulling at the precious fruit.

"Addison Montgomery with her hands dirty-"

"I get my hands dirty Sam," Addison retorts. She works hard, and she covers her hands with the blood of others.

At first she's taken aback by the kiss, stumbling onto her bare feet, heels long discarded by a fence yards away. But slowly, she turns into him willingly, seeking out his comfort, stability. Her fingers toy with his neck, his slowly trailing up and down her spine, tangling with the end of her illuminated red hair. He's warm, and strong, and for the seconds they embrace, indulge, it doesn't feel wrong. But when she pulls away, flushed with pink cheeks, and a thumping heart, reality starts to wiggle its way back in. "We shouldn't-"

"There's no one here but us Addison," Sam answers, stretching his arms out toward the clouds.

"Naomi," Addison retorts, her usual standby.

"Naomi isn't here. Pete's not here. Just us," he persuades, pulling her against him again, wanting to take the fear from her mouth and replace it with what he feels, something undeniably akin to love.

"Just us," Addison agrees, sighing, dancing on her toes anxiously, lips swollen.

Sam loses track of the seconds, minutes, feeling her slide her palm up under his shirt. But she retreats as quickly as she rises, snapping back, jaw clenched.

"I have Pete," Addison reminds him, jamming her hands into her jeans and sliding a few feet away from the heat and tension they like to create.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

San endured the decade long stories about good ol' Captain Montgomery, and withstood the withering glare Addison spent the night shooting at Susan. He laughed, paused, and smiled in good timing and used his excellent manners to assure Mr. Dafferty that his heart was fine, but that if he was so concerned that maybe he should speak with his own doctor. Sam dealt with being called Addison's colleague (when he wanted to be much, much more), with being the odd man out, choosing to observe the way she ebbed and flowed through the family friends, the diligence she paid to those surrounding her.

Somehow, through all of the mess they had created, she was raised to listen, to nod, and to be polite when she wanted to pull her hair and scream. And as much as Sam admired her decorum and patience, he had a feeling enough was enough.

"If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Montgomery, we have an early flight out tomorrow morning-"

"Oh, of course Samuel," Bizzy smiles, a hand flying over heart. "Don't let us keep you."

"Thank you," he smiles, giving in to the suspicious hug she wants. "It was nice to see you all again."

"You're welcome anytime," Bizzy answers falsely, eying Addison across the room, the stem of clear glass superglued to her hand. "Tell Addison goodbye for me."

"Will do," Sam complies.

He hears the gaggle of giggles behind him as he leaves, the inevitable question of what he and Bizzy Montgomery's daughter could possibly be doing together.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

She should have known better than getting pulled away by the man of the hour, should have known better than to be in a corner where she could easily be ambushed, but she's been rattled by Sam's kiss and the mounting stress of everything combined so she was easily attacked and led out into an empty service hallway.

"Kitten- Addison-"

"I have a flight," she replies sternly, weight already rocking through her feet nervously.

"I'm dying," he chuckles a little, to himself, it sounds so preposterous still. When his daughter's face registers blank, he continues. "Cancer."

"Your- I," Addison swallows. She didn't see that anywhere on his paperwork, and she would have seen it. She was looking for it after all. But then, they've always had a knack for hiding things they didn't want her to find.

"I didn't- don't want to upset your mother," The Captain smiles.

"She doesn't know," Addison says to herself through gritted teeth. Of course she doesn't know, of course he's keeping this from her too. "How long?"

"Three to five months," he solidifies.

Addison feels the cool breath leave her mouth, trailing over her stunned lips. She wanted it, she wished for it. "You think she won't notice?"

"That's between your mother and I. When the time is right-"

"The time is right now! You tell her now, while you still can, before she'll hate you for it."

"These days are mine, I'll spend them how I want, and if I want to be happy with her, then what's so wrong with that?" The Captain demands, already having wrestled with the same indecision on his own.

"Tell her, or I will." Addison decides her ultimatum is a good enough goodbye and disappears into the darkness, hoping to be cloaked in the very color that hides her when she has to return to this house next.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Naomi's not talking to her (possibly for the rest of eternity), talking to Sam is out (it will inevitably lead to more kissing), and Pete hasn't really been up for conversation since Violet came bursting back onto the scene. Which leaves Charlotte who is less than sympathetic, Cooper who would be inadequate, and her office plants.

"You look a little lost," Sheldon says from the doorway, his trademark easy smile on his face.

"My father is dying. Cancer," Addison says absently, staring at him until he closes the door. It feels good to just hear it aloud, where it need not be shrouded in mystery, and secrecy.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sheldon replies, bravely inching closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Bizzy doesn't know. He won't tell her, and I can't. He knows that too." She tried to pick up the phone, tried to dial, but she doesn't know how one has that conversation, especially in their awkward relationship, and there's no way to take something that grave and turn it into WASP speak. "I can't cover for him, I won't."

"Addison-"

"I don't know how to do this, how do I do this?"

"Tell your mother?"

"No."

"Addison-"

"Archer," Addison whispers. She could tell Archer, but he'd just run away off to Paris or something and leave everything to her until the good times return. She'd be left breaking her mother's heart, watching her father die, putting everyone back together, solo.

"Maybe you should focus-"

"Do I have to forgive him?" Addison asks seriously, tapping the pen on her desk, choosing to not look at Sheldon. "We should make amends, that's what people do in these situations, right?"

"Everyone is different," Sheldon replies, knowing she isn't hearing him anymore anyway. It doesn't matter, Addison just needs a warm body to talk at, and from what he's heard there isn't a soul left unharmed by this recent debacle. "Just talk to him. Start there."

"For a shrink, you give horrible advice."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"Two glasses, one bottle of red wine," Sam shouts, entering Addison's house from the cracked doors facing the rumbling ocean. She's been scarce since they returned, her lights always off, her handwriting always trailing ahead of his hunt at the hospital. "And," he jiggles the plastic bags hanging off his arm, "moderately warm Chinese food. And yes, before you ask, I got white rice this time."

"Sam," Addison sighs, tucking her phone into her purse, kicking at the lonely suitcase next to her foot.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"I'll be back on Monday, I was going to ask, if you don't mind- can you watch Milo? I put out extra food, so just come check on him?"

"What about Pete?" Sam asks, dropping their dinner on her kitchen counter, letting the glasses fall to a rest.

"Pete's ah- he's got Lucas, and he's busy. If it's a problem, just say so, and I'll ask someone else." She shrugs at him, but the truth is she and Pete agreed to a "cooling down" period on Wednesday after she exploded on him about Violet. She had no right, it was simply about something else, but he didn't know that and she doesn't have the energy required to fight. So now that she's ruined that relationship, she figures it's time to go burn down the final bridge.

"Not a problem," Sam shakes his head, watching her fidget with her watch, drawing imperceptible figures on the underside of her wrist.

"Thank you," Addison smiles. "I- should get going."

"Addison?" Sam calls out as she makes a hasty getaway, throat choked in emotion, the unintelligent urge to run and hide in his arms prevailing. When she turns around, cheeks already red, eyes watering, he has his answer. "How sick is he?"

"Three months," Addison replies. She's not in the mood for the best outcome situation.

"I'm here," Sam says willfully. "If you need anything, if you want to talk at two in the morning, you can call me."

He doesn't get a thank you, or a declination of the offer. All he receives is the quiet click of her front door, but in his mind it's as good as gold.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam tugs at the sleeve of his warm brown shirt, wiping the corner of his mouth as he fumbles down the stairs, Milo hot on his tail. He tried to leave the orange tabby alone, in his own domain but after three hours of ungodly screaming he gave up, and carried the cat across the sand to his house. "Addison?" Sam asks, trying to make out her figure on his deck, a forgotten lamp in the living room lighting his path. "What happened?" he questions grumpily, ushering her inside, squinting at the change in atmosphere she brings with her.

"I couldn't," Addison says weakly, shaking her head in disbelief. "I sat in the airport for seven hours and I just couldn't."

Sam sighs, and pulls her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist whether she wants him to or not. He's out of ways to help her, to show her how much he cares. He tucks her head into his neck and rubs a firm palm over her back. "Maybe next week," he whispers into her ear before tugging her upstairs, Milo cradled in his arms.

Once safely encapsulated in the clear blackness of Sam's bedroom, Addison rolls onto her back and with a deep, controlled exhalation mutters, "I can't stop hating him."

And with the stuttered breath she draws in next, Sam finally begins to realize that this scene isn't at all what he was anticipating. He can't kiss it all better, it's not going to be a quick fix of tight embraces and reassuring words.

The more he learns, the less he wants to know; she's ruining his shiny perception of what could be with real grief and mounting chaos.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**


	3. what could be an anchor here

A/N: This is a long time coming, and it's also super long so grab a snack and have a fun ride. Enjoy-

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

It doesn't take much to keep Sam from his sleep at night, and Addison has been the culprit of more hours of missed rest than he'd like to admit, but after a statement like that, it's hard to even shut his eyes. Yet, she's curled up on her own side, blanket under her chin, passed out like she hasn't seen a bed in weeks.

But Addison spends so much time bottling things up, going until she explodes, that it was probably cathartic. At least that's the only reasonable explanation he can draw from not having her wrapped up in his arms tightly when she awakens. Instead, he's already downstairs on his fifth cup of coffee, paper spread over the table, every word being utilized in the hopes that he will be sufficiently distracted.

"I'm – I'll see you at work," Addison says loudly, startling him out of the headlines and into her newsflash.

"They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Sam smiles, luring her in with a fresh cup of boldly blended beans.

"Not hungry," Addison declines, wrapping her arms around herself. She's in last night's attire, preparing for the walk of shame. And while there is much to be ashamed of, it's far from traditional. "About yesterday, I'd appreciate it if we kept this- the practice is under enough stress as it is."

"I understand," Sam nods in his best version of friend mode, but he can't stop the butterflies that have been storming through his stomach all night, diving and swooping every time she would inch closer, hair near enough to smell.

"Thank you."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"How you holding up?" Sam asks, dutifully digging his hands into her shoulders after setting a tall cup of chai tea on her desk. The blinds are drawn, and most of the staff has checked out, so he feels safe in his decision. Safe, until she snaps up, wriggling out his grasp, and hastily grabbing her purse.

"Pete and I are having dinner, I have to go," Addison explains, no longer caring about the slight moment of unease it causes him to hear the other man's name spoken aloud. Fact is, Pete is the person she whines to. Pete is the person she never has to divulge full secrets to, only the parts she so chooses. He comforts her one way or another, the only way they know how. So she called him, apologized, and suggested a quiet meal, without Lucas, because that only seems to hurt more lately.

"I thought-"

"Me too," Addison sighs, sweeping her growing hair over one shoulder and heading for the door.

Later that night, tangled in Pete's legs, she prays for Lucas to erupt into a series of hysterical cries so she can go rescue him. She needs to fix something, soothe someone who can't judge her, someone who loves her unconditionally even if she doesn't deserve it, even if it is only because he isn't old enough to get it yet.

But the men in her life sleep better than ever, and Addison spends the night crawling out of her skin, waiting.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

On the fourth day of her recent reconciliation Addison schedules her day packed full of complicated, tiring, and emotional surgeries. Never as exhausted as she was in Sam's bedroom, Addison makes her first cut full of hope for a great night's sleep that will last into the afternoon hours of Saturday so that she can't be overwhelmed by the instant handshake of regret and guilt that accompanies her every morning.

She should be there. She should be holding her father's hand, telling him all is forgiven, no hurt feelings. But feelings were hurt, and lives were, if not ruined, skewed in a manner that was unfair to everyone. And that's difficult to let go, to let go of the life that likes to slap her hand when she least expects it.

The monitors bring her attention back to the rather routine procedure on the unconventional patient, as she attempts to make a break for death.

"Charge the paddles!" Addison hears herself shout before she realizes that perhaps this, the day of gross, bloody fun that usually cures all, may not be able to scratch the surface of her preoccupied mind this time.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam finds her impassive in front of the ocean, watching the lapping waves with fake enthusiasm, after receiving a tip from Charlotte King that Addison's big day out at the hospital left with her practically sprinting for the entrance as Charlotte was bombarded with lawyers.

"You're amazing, it wasn't your fault," Sam starts with a playful grin, offering her a tall glass of red wine to wash away their fears.

"I killed her," Addison nods.

"You did your best," Sam interrupts. His recent foray into surgery has been difficult and she's his model of success. He left for a reason, all those years ago, but he thinks he's strong enough again.

"I didn't," Addison shrugs. "I did the equivalent to what an intern does, I froze. I don't freeze, Sam. Never."

"Addison-" Sam scolds, forcing the drink into her hand, and trying to hide his disappointment when she won't even touch it. Alcohol is mandatory for these type of events, for unwinding, and it's more than disconcerting that she's uninterested.

"I think I should take some time off...until after."

"Ok," Sam gulps, peering through the long locks of red that are blocking a clear view of her face. Addison is never one to take a day away, nevermind more than two days in a row.

"There will probably be a lawsuit involved," Addison tells him numbly. Today, she killed a person. It hasn't happened in so long, not so blatantly, that she's caught off guard. If this was Seattle, she wouldn't even be fazed (mistakes wouldn't have been made), but out here in the bright sun, cracks have developed in her carefully carved life. Everyone knows all of her strictly confidential information here. "Maybe you should take over running the practice, it'd be for the best."

"No," Sam objects, settling onto her deck, speaking over the ocean. "You're my partner, we've been sued before, for worse. We always make it through, it'll be fine."

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Addison squeaks, pity mode fully engaged.

Since Sam can't assure her that it's nothing, because he doesn't know, he drops a warm arm over her shoulder and leads her head to the special nook in his neck that he loves to feel her pressed against. It's a little selfish, but Sam the friend would do this too.

"I miss Nai," Addison moans into the collar of his striped collar. But Naomi has run off somewhere, and even if she was in town Addison highly doubts she'd be receptive to being a sounding board for this mess.

His fingers dance into her hair eagerly, tracing feather light patterns over her scalp as she tries to control the emotions that are daring to break her resolve.

Sometimes, he has learned, the best plan with Addison is just to shut up and let her do her thing.

There's rarely room to argue, she's always right, even when she's wrong.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam can't say he's entirely surprised to hear the clicking of Addison's heels the next morning running through the halls at the practice. He's come to expect the overreaction, the coiling, and then the resolution.

"Change of heart," Sam jokes, waltzing into her office, Addison's head bent over, searching through a desk drawer.

"No, actually. Rescheduling some patients that probably won't want to continue being patients of mine as soon as this hits. Will you remind Dell that Mrs. Lyman is very anxious?"

"Addison-" Sam begins, clearing his throat. "You're running."

"I'm taking space," Addison clarifies for him, plucking a pen out of the container in the corner and powering up her computer.

"An unplanned sabbatical," Sam changes, striding forward.

"It's not like I'm quitting to go back to Seattle Sam. When's the last time I took a vacation- I can't even remember."

"Switzerland," Sam mutters to himself. She went to Switzerland almost seven years ago, Derek tagging along reluctantly, if he can recall correctly. He hates himself for knowing the answer only slightly less than he hates the idea of her personal leave. "When are you coming back?"

"I'm not sure," Addison answers casually, not minding the seat he's strategically placed himself in, or his building fury.

"As your business partner I think I have a right to that information. I need to be able to deal with this accordingly."

"What if I say a month?" Addison questions, finally facing him, work mode engaged.

"Fine."

"Two months?"

"Addison-"

"What Sam? I'm just asking because apparently it makes a great amount of difference to you. One week? Seven weeks? Three hours? What would make you the most comfortable?"

"Come on," Sam sighs. It's not about the time off, hell he'd like some himself but that's not how their world works. They're doctors, they're minutes are not their own, and she knows it well.

"Forget it," Addison replies, fizzling out easily. She has no energy, no stamina. She is consumed.

"He is going to die Addison," Sam interrupts her exit. "Maybe not today, maybe not next Monday, but he's dying. You can't run from that."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"No Addison," Violet notes, dipping into the cookie stash in the kitchen the following week.

"You did something bad," Cooper accuses, sipping his coffee, staring at Sam, leaving him to wonder why in the world they all think this is his fault.

"Worse than bad," Pete tacks on, Addison having not returned a single call since her bowing out at work.

"Why are you even up here?" Sam scowls, looking at the man Addison likes to pick over him.

"Everybody stop your whining-" Charlotte begins, but pauses when the tension in the room reaches critical level. "We're beating a dead horse here, she'll come back if she wants, when she wants."

"Who?" Naomi asks, with a slow smile, perched behind them in the doorway.

"No one," Sam mutters, excusing himself with the paper he stole from Addison's porch this morning.

She doesn't come over for drinks, she doesn't respond to invitations of dinner, he can't even catch her outside anymore. If he wasn't borderline stalking her, catching the briefest of glances, he'd swear she wasn't even living next door any longer.

It's miserable, losing a lover. It's hell missing his friend.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Addison is swept up into the tragedy tornado as soon as she steps foot onto the estate. It's a cold, dreary day in Connecticut, just as she suspected when she landed a few hours ago. There's rain sprinkling over the still dewy petals, the blades of grass are signaling their retreat, as her knuckles bounce off the front door.

She can't let herself in.

"Ms. Addison," Ingrid greets, ushering her in, practically ripping the light coat off her arms. "Dr. Montgomery is in the study-"

"My mother-"

"Study," the housekeeper nods, rushing away and back within seconds, a strong cocktail being offered.

Addison declines, noting the early morning time. No one notices here, it's not odd. It's commonplace to have gin with cereal, brandy with a muffin. This parallel universe haunts her as she winds through the expanse of open rooms, cluttered with perfect artifacts of a life that never existed outside of a decorator's mind.

She's here, she made it, she reminds herself as her hand locates the chilly doorknob. There's no sense in turning back.

"Addison!" Susan squeals in excitement, removing herself from Bizzy's side.

"You didn't tell us that we should be expecting you," Bizzy breathes, frigid as ice, unapologetic.

"It's- it was...sort of last minute," Addison finishes, eyes glued on her father. Her once tall, proud, cocky father. Now he sits, a blanket draped over his legs, a bunchy sweater clinging to his dwindling form. It's been swift, the disease, gouging his eyes, stealing his usual swagger and gleam.

He's reduced to this human-esque resemblance, but it's not nearly as victorious as Addison once imagined it to be. To have him looking at her, wanting attention, instead of the other way around.

The victory is hollow, churning her empty stomach.

"Give us a moment, please," The Captain says, clearing his throat, waiting for them to vacate. "So what do you think of my new look?" he laughs.

"Don't do that," Addison says softly. There isn't a place for jokes where they never lived anyway.

"I'm glad you came Kitten-"

"Don't call me that."

"Fine," The Captain sighs, picking up the crystal next to him and downing the amber liquid.

"You shouldn't be drinking-"

"I know you didn't come all the way here to start telling me what to do, we both know your mother has that under control."

"I don't know why I'm here," Addison admits, gripping her hair in fury. It's hard to hate a crippled man, it's hard to blame the limp form in front of her for all of her issues, small and large.

"I'm glad you came."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"Sam!" Addison yells, barging into his darkened home. "Sam!" Her shin connects with the kitchen table, leaving her stunned as he ambles down the steps.

"Addison- what?" Sam asks, yawning, brushing his eyes as they attempt to make out her form.

Addison crumples into the floor willingly, gripping her leg that doesn't hurt any worse than anything else, but using the excuse to finally cry for the sake of getting it out.

Sam frowns, reluctant to have this interrupting his precious sleep, but manages, after some fight, to get her onto the couch, even if she is tangled up in his embrace.

When the sniffling stops, when the shaking subsides, he finds the courage to ask if she wants a drink which initially results in a yes, until he has to stand and then she changes her mind not wanting to relinquish the way he feels pressed against her.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks dumbly as she winds a fist into the neck of his blue shirt.

"It was horrible," Addison whispers, lips landing just behind his ear, inhaling his perfect scent.

After a few minutes of ill-advised soft kisses, Sam manages to pluck himself free. "What are you doing?"

"Sam," Addison whines, reaching for the drawstring of his pajamas.

She needs to feel better, she needs to forget. This is her modus operandi. It never fails to satisfy in the moment.

"You're not doing this, not like this. You have to pick me."

"I am," Addison grins, standing up beside him, ready to climb the stairs and take this dive.

"No," Sam nods to himself.

"No," she repeats, trying to confirm the failure.

"I won't be the thing you regret in the morning-"

"I won't," Addison assures him, still seeing a sparkle of hope on the horizon.

"Just go home Addison, go sleep off whatever nightmare you've created."

The cutting edge in his voice takes her back to the failing of her marriage and unwittingly ignites a fuse. "You've been begging for this, and now you're going to stand there and dictate when and how I should be giving myself to you?"

Sam rolls his eyes in the darkness and turns to face the ocean. He's lost the ability to reason with her, lost the will to argue. "I don't want to push this," he tries, wanting to be sympathetic on some level.

"Push? All you do is push Sam! You kissed me in the vineyard-"

"And you kissed me in the hospital," he recalls correctly.

"So what? Now we're even? I moved on Sam, I'm with Pete-"

"Then why aren't you knocking down Pete's door and jumping into his lap?" Sam asks angrily, sending her flying from the room. "Perfect."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

He's still fuming in the morning air when she waltzes back into his kitchen, helping herself to a cup of his coffee and a splash of his creamer. To say he's confused would be a grave understatement, but he's too baffled to open his mouth. Women are insane, why no one ever warned him of this fact he is unsure.

"You're my friend," Addison explains to him, feeling more like herself today than any day preceding it. "Last night, that was wrong. You don't do that to friends. Forgive me?" she smiles, watching him in trepidation for the moment it all breaks lose.

Seems she's having a string of bad nights lately.

Sam's going to forgive her whether he wants to or not, because unfortunately, he's in love. He's in lust. He's a mess.

"I'm- Pete and I, we're not...anymore...again. I should have mentioned that." It lasted about three days the second time. She was lonely, but it wasn't a cure for what she was missing.

She can't remember who ended it, whose conclusion it was, things like that don't matter much.

"Would've been good," Sam agrees, feeling the atmosphere begin to shift in his favor. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," Addison laughs, taking another sip of her coffee. "That's the last thing I want to do, but I was thinking you could help me with something..."

"Something like?"

"Work," Addison answers simply, smiling over the rim of her cup.

"You're welcome back whenever you're ready, that lawsuit was a no go."

"I heard," Addison sighs. Her lawyers have more money, a settlement was easy, quick, and dirty. She bets a younger version of herself is screaming in her sleep about morals and principles and how this was not the way things were supposed to go. "I'm- I can't deal with people."

"Naomi," Sam assumes. He's starting to see her presence, though with hate bursting from her pores, more often than after the original incident. "She'll come around, or she won't. Nothing we can do."

"More specifically," Addison clears her throat, God she can't even handle Naomi right now. "Cooper. Charlotte. Violet."

"Cooper's afraid of you, I'll tell Violet to keep her space and I'm afraid there's not a lot we can control about Charlotte King. Unless you want me to fire her, that'd be my pleasure."

Addison slumps into a seat at the kitchen table and traces the small grains in the wood below her. There's a fragile game she's partaking in, and while she's certain she can lie to each of them a few times, persistence will wear her down. The withering, knowing looks will get under her skin, and she feels catastrophe looming. "I told Sheldon. He was just there, and...I don't want to make that mistake again."

Sheldon is the only one with the whole story, and she feels infinitely safer with several versions that make up the larger picture floating around rather than his.

"What do you want me to do?"

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**  
_  
"Your father has been feeling a little under the weather," Bizzy explains, dutifully pouring the tea into the delicately patterned china in front of her. She looks at Addison expectantly, wanting her expertise, and watches her daughter fumble for the right words. "He's fine," Bizzy unilaterally decides. "We missed dinner at the Faulkner's last Wednesday, he said he needed sleep. And he's been spending a lot of his time out on walks or lounging in his study."_

"He's fine," Addison repeats for her, steadying her shaking hand by taking the steaming pot from her grasp and finishing up their afternoon snack. "Patients often times need extended recovery time," Addison tacks on wisely. "Strokes are traumatizing."

"Yes," Bizzy agrees simply. "We have a charity event tomorrow evening, are you staying?"

Addison notes the abrupt change in topic and takes the hint. "No, I have work I need to get back to."

Bizzy stops, slowing the cart in front of her laden with lemon cookies and buttery croissants. "It was nice of you to stop by Addison." She then returns to her task, heading back toward her husband, leaving her daughter in the dust.

Addison thinks it may be the nicest, un-backhanded compliment she has ever received from her mother. And it's frightening.  
  
**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Sam feels torn. On one hand it's always super fun to be on Addison's sneaky team, but on the other, shuffling her charts under his and stowing away paperwork for her, speeding home on his lunch to give her his findings, that part is a little tiring. And he feels a tiny bit used after the first three days. "When are you coming back?" he asks, slumping into a lounge chair beside her, taking to the ocean waves the way she takes to red wine.

"I'm really behind Sam," Addison smiles gently. "I remember now why I don't take time off. I feel like I never catch up."

He's seen the papers, the labs spread across her living room floor in very organized piles, caught her bedroom light on at three in the morning on more than one occasion. Chances are, she'll be caught up sooner than she'd like.

"You can't operate on your kitchen table."

"That'd be...interesting," Addison laughs to herself. As a surgeon she's spent countless hours hypothesizing what it would be like to perform rogue surgeries in random places. The backseat of taxis, while shoe shopping, nameless sidewalks. But truth be told, she likes the sterile scent of an OR, the condemning glint of clean clamps and retractors.

There's a safety in that world that can't be matched by anything else she's discovered.

"Naomi yelled at me today," Sam remarks, cleaning out his glass and pouring another. It's a false truth. She did yell, about a patient. But he needs a way to work her into this conversation, once light and fluffy now trekking into a dangerous territory where Addison shuts down completely. "Yelling is a good sign. And we haven't done anything wrong, we're adults." And that's what he would have told her, had she been willing to hear it. Instead he stood his ground in the hospital while his ex-wife got passive-aggressive and yelled about things that had nothing to do with him.

He'd stand up for them, for Addison, if he thought it would make a damn bit of difference. Unfortunately, he's too spun up in trying to play the good guy for everyone.

"She'll calm down, there's no need to hide out in your house," Sam tells her confidently. And Naomi will settle, she always does, but it's also fun to see her fight for something instead of resign.

"I'm going back...to Connecticut on Thursday," Addison deflects. "Archer said he'd meet me there."

"That'll be good."

"Yes," Addison nods her approval. There will be a shield, finally.

"Do- I could-" Sam sputters, hastily giving up. He wants to say that he's here, lean on him. He's here to have tears staining his shoulders, to wipe wet cheeks, to soothe dizzy minds. But then, that's what Addison always uses Archer for. He's not her fallback.

He's a good shoulder, though.

"Bizzy doesn't know," Addison sighs. And it's a lot more convoluted than she's going to let on. There's no way to say that her mother's lover is the person holding her father's other hand, the one changing schedules, the one easing her mother's worried heart.

Addison wants to know if Susan secretly feels relieved, to have no competition, but she'll never be able to ask.

"The Captain won't tell her what is going on- I...I told him I would, but he knows I won't."

_"She worries about you," Addison says cautiously, returning from dinner, running to her room but suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to confront him._

"She worries," The Captain dismisses, laboring over the leather bound book in front of him, and the cocktail staining the fine mahogany with a liquid rim.

It's unfair because the affection she longs for, has always longed for, her father dismisses without thought, without care. What she would give to have Bizzy genuinely worried about her, for her, without prejudice to how it will challenge her social standing.

She's been through hell the last five years, and when she needed a family, a mother, a father, a sibling, no one showed. No one ever comes for her. And yet, here she is.

"She has a right to know," Addison tactfully challenges.

"And I have a right to live," her father growls angrily, swiping at the thick crystal in front of him, letting it bounce off the tasseled rug at his feet.  


"I'm his box," Addison sighs heavily, closing her eyes tightly.

"It'll be over soon," Sam says after a few beats, leaning over to press his lips to his forehead. He thinks, after seeing them all interact, that maybe she can take solace in that.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Certainly being trapped in an elevator with her best friend who loathes her has many outcomes, but Addison opts for resignation and silence. She's not going to plead her case, she's too busy mentally packing. She's not going to apologize, she's tied up in trying to calculate how much longer her father will be among the land of the living. And the one person she wants to tell everything to, the one person who she wants running their patient fingers through her hair, is steadily glaring at her as they ascend floors slowly.

"You betrayed me," Naomi seethes, not able to keep it in as she climbs free of the laughing contraption.

"The Captain is dying," Addison blurts out, mind devoid of any other words that could be used.

The doors slide to a close. It's a cheap shot, but she's not asking for forgiveness.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

The box of heavenly chocolates slides hesitantly across the surface of Naomi's desk, but her chair doesn't swivel from it's position facing the wall behind her.

So Addison begins anyway, because she decided she can't leave, not in good faith without doing this.

She needs peace somewhere on the horizon and she's a fighter, or she was.

"I shouldn't have...we shouldn't have done that, Sam and I. I should have said something, at the first inkling. You deserved that. I was scared Nai, I am scared," Addison shakes her head. This is audacious. A trial with the executioner is only meant to go one way. "We- I," she rapidly changes her mind, "never meant to hurt you, or betray you. It wasn't about you, and maybe it should have been- before, earlier. Could have spared us all."

Addison sucks a deep breath in when the chair doesn't move a fraction of an inch. "Nothing happened. Nothing is happening. There's no conspiracy- I just...I miss my friend, and I have to fly out to Connecticut and you know what that does to me Naomi, you know. So I'm going crazy, and he's dying and I don't feel anything about it. I'm devoid, but I miss you. I need you. It's selfish and I don't care."

She knows better than to think a well meaning speech will win her heart over, but she had to speak it. She knows better than to think Naomi won't be a complete mule about this, but she hopes. And then that flees and she turns to the door to find that her friend hasn't been listening mutely the entire time, no she joined the party at some point toward the end and lingered in the doorway.

"I- I...can't Addie," Naomi whispers. With William and Gabriel an Maya, there are limits. It's strategy at this point. "I can't do this with you right now."

When the final blow of disappointment settles into her stomach Addison rushes herself away, unprepared and unwilling to deal with the storm brewing on the home front.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"Lighten up, Addison," Archer chides with a smile too disconcerting for the situation. He swings the front door wide open, letting himself into their childhood home and tosses his coat over the table in the foyer nearly knocking over a tall vase of freshly cut red flowers. He spots his mother across the house and turns back to his little sister. "Remember to breathe."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"You're still mad about that Naomi bullshit," Archer accuses after dinner, Addison carefully observing the dying patient dressed in his best pinstripes. Bizzy was astonished and thrilled to see Archer, Addison in tow, and demanded to hear all of his latest stories, but as the night wore on, alcohol flowing strongly through the heavy air, Addison grew weary and annoyed with his cavalier attitude.

"No," Addison denies. She's not mad anymore, if she was at all. She's just tired of dealing with everyone in this house, including Susan who is lurking closer than normal, Addison assumes trying to assess if she's ratted her out to Archer.

She wanted to, but really, how does one start that conversation? Especially when your only sibling picks up his phone one in twenty calls. She's lucky he's here at all, distracting her mother with his amazing words and insight.

"Archer, tell us about Paris," Bizzy asks as they settle in by the bar for an enduring night. "I haven't been in too long."

"Have you had any interesting cases lately?" The Captain asks his daughter, trying to start a side conversation and receiving a blank stare in response. She wants to play the silent treatment game, but she has better manners than that.

"No," Addison repeats for the second person. And Archer swoops in perfectly, diving into a story about another one of his patient's misfortunes. He always lacked proper bedside etiquette.

Archer has no heart, Derek used to say. Archer has no soul, every one has remarked at least once in their dealings with him. And try as she might, Addison has never been effective at cutting out the source of the infection in her life. They haven't spoken since he ran out of L.A. His publicist (a.k.a. the professional woman Archer was seeing on the side) spoke with her last week and mentioned that Archer would be returning home briefly to see his father (he comes home sporadically like a good child, Addison hadn't been here for years).

No one has told Archer that his model of success is dying in front of his eyes, Addison wonders if he can sense it.

"I- he- The Captain," Addison stutters nervously, drawing everyone's attention, down to the server helping with the drinks. She receives a cursory warning glance from her father but she's overcome by the monster. If she has to listen to another word about Archer's adventures or Bizzy's prized garden or the damn country club she is going to lose her mind.

They talk about everything that isn't important, everything that isn't real, and it's exhausting.

"Well finish, since you saw it so fit as to interrupt," Bizzy demands.

She can see Archer laughing at her scolding from across the room. "He's dying," Addison squeaks, and receives uproarious laughter in reply.

"Someone has had too much," Archer mocks, toying her glass out of her grasp as she looks on confused.

"Honestly Addison, if you're trying to gain attention-"

"She's right," The Captain interrupts through a burst of relief. It's his story, but he couldn't tell it.

"We're all dying, right sis?" Archer continues, signaling the man behind him for another dose of alcohol. "This is some hypothetical or philanthropic point of interest. One could argue that as we wear down our bodies-"

"Archer, enough," his father interrupts. "I- I'm dying." He smiles. "Cancer."

Addison notices the death grip Bizzy has on her cup and takes that as her cue to retreat immediately.

The screams that echo down the hallway should lull her to sleep in a frustratingly fragile sense of normalcy, but instead she spends the rest of the night watching the wallpaper until it wiggles in an illusion of imagination and necessity.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

At one in the afternoon, the following day, a light knock on the door pulls Addison from her daydreaming. She hasn't left this space, hardly climbed out of the large bed, since last night's explosion. No has come to retrieve her for breakfast so that they could put on a big show for their imaginary guests, and the screams, and slamming doors went well into the earliest parts of the morning. She doubts anyone has noticed she's missing.

"Come in," she replies to the insistent askance on the other side. It's probably Susan dropping off a snack, as she used to during the legendary fights she had with Bizzy.

Back when Addison thought they were on the same team.

"Hey," Sam says softly, latching the heavy door behind him quietly. He took a chance, he dared himself.

So rather than attend the conference he flew into New York for he took a sharp detour and he's not sure if it's going to pay off. But he had to try, he had to give it a last ditch effort after the morning of coffee they shared, after the last week of empty conversations and halfhearted declarations of being "fine".

"What- ah- what are you doing here?" Addison asks with a gulp. She pats down the hair she hasn't brushed and self consciously runs a quick finger under her eyes to grab and traces of mascara residue that she may have or may have not cried off over the course of the last few hours.

"I had a conference, but I thought, maybe you could use a friend. Ingrid said you hadn't woken up yet when I called."

"I outed my father," Addison explains. "I fed him to the vultures Sam." Not even he deserves that, Addison rationalizes. "And I tried to talk to Naomi before I left and she...hates me, literally despises me. And Archer has probably already taken off. I ruined everything. Everything, and I...didn't know how to get out of bed today so...I didn't."

She broke a cardinal Montgomery rule. You don't share someone else's private matters for them. She knows better than that.

Sam nods wordlessly and climbs in next to her, leaning back against the pillows and tugging at his yellow silk tie. It's too tight, it's suffocating in here, the warmth emanating from the crackling fireplace making him overheated. He sighs when she curls up against him, placing her head in his lap and tugging her sweatshirt over her shorts, covering her bare knees.

"Bizzy is going to murder me," Addison tells him confidently. Of all the horrible things they have shouted at one another, this takes the cake.

"I feel like...I'm spinning out Sam, like I'm spiraling down into a black hole constantly. With Mark and Pete and you, and the Naomi thing, and the Violet thing, and the baby thing. And this. I don't- what do I do?"

"You sleep," Sam assures her, brushing back her hair over the bunched hood of her shirt, stroking until he feels her relax over him. "For now, sleep."

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**  
_  
"You don't just get to reintroduce yourself into my life like you haven't been missing," Addison says angrily, slamming down her cup on his desk. "I'm not going to do crosswords with you, or talk surgery, or whatever else it is you have in mind for us. I told you I was done-"_

"I'm dying," The Captain stuffily reminds her.

"That doesn't change anything! You dying doesn't...it just...doesn't," Addison blathers exasperated at his desire for blanket mercy for everything that has happened. "I'm not your daughter. You don't know me."

"I want to know you. This is our chance," he persuades.

"And what? If you weren't...dying, what then?"

"I can't speak to that, it's not the circumstance."

"I won't forgive you."

"I don't expect you to," he replies, well aware of his daughter's perceptions and feelings toward their nonexistent relationship. "Just...let me be there, like I should have been, for a little while at least. Let me try Addison."  


**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"Feel better?" Sam murmurs a few hours later, roused from his own nap after feeling her stir on his legs.

"Worse," Addison gripes, swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth. "If that's humanly possible."

She excuses herself to brush her teeth and is met with the unfriendly remembrance of last night, of all of her father's pleadings, of all the things that have amounted to Sam in her bed. And she realizes, she doesn't care anymore, guilt be damned. She's lost the ability to have any emotional outcry toward anything, she's numb.

It's an old friend, wrapping her in a cocoon of meaninglessness and surety.

When she returns, freshened with sweet mint and tangle free hair, she straddles Sam's legs between her own and settles her head against his chest. The sound of his heart fills her ears graciously, quickening when she reaches up for the top button of his collar.

"Addison," Sam mumbles as he clears his throat. Of all the inappropriate places and times, this is the topper. But then she lifts her own shirt overhead, exposing the skin he fantasies about and most rational thoughts flee his head. She's tugging at his belt, nipping at his ear frantically, and he's afraid their first time will be so rushed that she'll never get to understand how terrified he is, and how special this should feel.

He doesn't want to be number twelve, or the final musketeer. He just wants to be Sam and Addison, true to themselves, slow. So by the time she's got his shirt pushed back against his shoulders, her tongue making a delightful pattern just above his abs, he has no other choice but to reach for her wrists and push her back. And when she looks confused, and hurt by his reaction, he leans forward and gently kisses her, letting her know that it's his turn.

Because there's no way that he's letting her have all of the control their first time, there's no way she's going to stop him from tasting every last inch of her tantalizing legs, and there's no way he's going to allow her to have this all be over in ten very heated minutes, no matter how enticing it sounds in the moment.

He paces himself, taking his time pulling down her shorts, enjoying every second of watching her squirm. And he commits her first breathy moan to memory, deciding it's the best sound he's heard out of her in a long time, and when he's finally ready to push into her, they're already glistening with sweat, and she's so wet the bedsheets are a complete mess.

And then, Sam swears the world stops. This is exactly how it was supposed to be, his head cloudy, his full body spread over hers, his grasp on her wrists still secure.

There's a quiet plea for more, harder, faster, but he wants it languid. He needs to let her know how serious he is about this, that it's not all about finally getting to screw each other unconscious.

And when it finally happens, Sam's positive he's never come that hard, that he's never felt anyone that tight around him, that he's never had all of the air pushed out of his lungs in such relief.

For a good three minutes he kisses her neck softly, as she tries to stop constricting around him. For three minutes the world is perfect.

And then she rolls out from underneath him, covering herself the best she can with a sheet and makes a mad dash for the bathroom as she bursts into tears.

Sam's not certain how it could have gone better, cleaning himself off and yanking his pants back over his legs, but he's now definitely contributed to the disastrous state of affairs that led them all here.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

He begged her to come out for a solid five minutes, demanded that she unlock the door so he could come in, but then he heard the powerful spray of water from the shower and gave up, slouching onto the couch by the window and grabbing a faceless book off the coffee table in front of him.

Sam doesn't know the expanse of time that's passed since he began reading the same page over and over and the knock on the door, but the shower is still on so he thinks it can't have been too terribly long. Convinced it's Archer waiting in the hall, Sam answers.

"Look, she doesn't want to talk to you right- Naomi-"

"Samuel," Naomi acknowledges, trying her best not to turn on her heel and march right back away.

He lets her in, because he can't not, but the bed is obviously in chaos, and Addison managed to throw her clothes completely across the room earlier. His cheeks burn warm as she surveys the area, and he can tell she is attempting not to wrap her hands around his neck.

"When did it happen?" Naomi wants to know. Was it in med school, was it before she married Derek, while they all lived in New York, before or after Maya? Because doubt has crept into every memory, every story, and she's been re-examining her life for the last several weeks desiring to figure out how she'd been so dumb, how she couldn't have seen this coming.

Sam thinks it's fairly obvious when and what just happened, and he can feel the air around him become thicker and harder to inhale. "I-I, I don't know," he answers honestly.

"Our marriage-"

"Fell apart on its own," he reminds her. There were no closet lovers, there were no feelings being harbored and hidden for other people. Their marriage was an honest debacle, and it came to its own end, in its own time. Addison had nothing to do with it. "We didn't know...until we knew...and then we- Addison stopped it."

"I don't know how to be alright with this Sam!" Naomi yells, kicking at Addison's shorts with her pointy black heel. "She's my best friend, and your my husband!" She didn't come here to scream, she came to grow up and be supportive, because her friend needed her, but this is too damn much.

"Ex-husband," he corrects for her.

"How could you do this to us?"

He's about to answer her, retying his tie to keep his hands busy, when he hears the shower turn off. He wants to tell his ex-wife that this, what he and Addison have going on, has nothing to do with her, and he doesn't particularly care if Naomi hates him or not. He can be the villain if he gets the girl. Instead all he can mumble is, "Don't hurt her, please."

Sam can't convince Addison that Naomi doesn't count anymore, he can't keep telling her that it doesn't matter what she thinks, because it's become achingly obvious that it does matter, and her say, never bother how much it enrages Sam to be a in three person relationship, is important to the woman he wants to spend the foreseeable future with.

"I'm sorry, that was amazing, and I-" Addison speaks, door barely open before she gets it out, long before she sees Sam and Naomi facing off in her childhood bedroom that she just defiled in the most pleasurable way possible. "Na-omi."

She quivers when she's embraced by warm hands around her back, her head following suit, too stunned to move out of the hug. There are no words for this, and nothing is okay, but she's really here. "I'm so sorry," Addison whispers.

"Not now," Naomi tells her, pulling her closer, and ushering Sam out of the room with a flick of her wrist.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Dinner is stilted and awkward. Naomi isn't talking to Archer after what happened, not that anyone is really speaking to each other anyway. There's chatter about the silly garden that's in full bloom, and The Captain's waning enthusiasm in golf, but mostly it's the clatter of silverware against delicate china, and the slurping of wine that occupies the space.

There's a game to be played, a lie to keep well hidden in front of the guests (who don't need cluing in), and Bizzy entertains as though her life depends on it. They settle into the parlor for cards and more gin, and when Archer makes a break, Addison is hot on his heels.

"Why'd you bring them here?" he snarls. His ex-whatever and the guy who packs a helluva punch, it's uncalled for. He throws his coat over his shoulders and hurriedly buttons it closed.

"What are you doing?" Addison asks, looking at the front door, the room brightly lit by the chandelier overhead.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Archer replies meanly, scowling at her as he reaches for an umbrella in the stand.

"You cannot leave me here."

"Addison-"

"Archer!" she yells suddenly, feeling threatened. "He's sick. You can't leave me alone with them, you can't leave me!"

"He's an ass," Archer reasons. He hated him, once.

"What about me?" Addison demands. He can walk away from their father, that's easy.

"I have to go."

"Fine," Addison huffs, wrapping her arms around herself to shield the icy wind that cuts through the entryway when Archer opens the door. "Run away, that's what you do best."

"Oh come on, this coming from the woman who fled both New York and Seattle."

"Don't bring that into this," Addison answers him.

"No! No. You get to run when it suits you, but heaven forbid that anyone else get to make the same decision."

"He's dying!"

"No one cares!" Archer shouts back at her. Good riddance and all, he figures. And if it hurts, if the little boy who used to love playing out on the harbor with his father is anywhere inside him he can't recognize it. "Let him!"

"Bizzy-"

"Screw Bizzy," Archer cuts her off heatedly.

"I need you," Addison whimpers at her older brother, following him out the door. But the men she surrounds herself with, they aren't reliable.

"You're a big girl Addison," Archer relinquishes, pressing a hesitant kiss to her cheek, afraid she's going to slap him. "And you should have told me, we're supposed to stick together."

It's hard to stick to water, Addison thinks. He's slippery, diving in and out. You can't tie down Archer. His car peels out of the asphalt angrily, speeding off to God knows where and she can only be thankful that at least this time she got a goodbye.

When she rejoins her friends, her parents, she has a fib ready and waiting. Archer got a call, Archer has a patient, Archer has a flight, Archer has a meeting.

She's used to the routine, she almost doesn't notice the hurt in her mother's eyes anymore.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"I love you, Addison," The Captain breathes, drinking in her astonishment. "I know I never said it enough, or often, but I love you both. You and your brother. You're the best thing I've ever done with my life, maybe the only good thing, and I'm sorry, for all of it." He sighs, it probably sounded rehearsed. Mostly because it was. They don't talk about these things, they don't talk about anything. If he recalls correctly he used to yell at her about Derek being an inappropriate fit and about how she wasn't focused enough on her career.

He's tired, and he doesn't want to argue anymore, especially after last night and Bizzy's complete meltdown. He feels ill, he feels old, and there's no one to care because he never let anyone know they were important to him.

"I hate you," Addison cries. She hates him for trying to erase the past with a phrase. She hates him for wanting to know her, for confusing the very clear family lines they had set up long ago. She hates him for making Archer the way he is, she hates him for making them all miserable.

The Captain only nods, understandingly. He hates himself too. But then he feels a shaky pair of arms close in around him. And it's real, a real hug, the likes of which he hasn't felt since she was five and didn't know any better.

It's the best present he could ask for on a birthday as tumultuous as this.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

Forty three days. Seven other weekend trips. Three very overcareful hugs.

Nothing really changed. Bizzy still pretended the best she knew how, and The Captain still lectured her on cases. Susan still hovered around behind everyone. But the edge was gone. There was anger, but above it, a collective effort. To make the best of a bad situation, to deal with the pain, the betrayal after it was over.

It was a cease fire. The only respectful thing to do.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

_"Samuel," The Captain greets wearily from his favorite chair. This has become his station, pill bottles scattered on the table next to him, a cup of water mostly full._

"Sir- Dr.- Mr. Montgomery," Sam sputters, reaching for his frail hand.

"You need to learn how to calm down," The Captain smiles. "These Montgomery women will give to give you a heart attack."

"Yes, sir," Sam agrees kindly, sitting next to him.

"Go ahead," The Captain urges impatiently. He's seen him with his daughter, out by the horses holding hands, sneaking a kiss in when they think no one can see. But from the window on his right he's watched their story unfold, perhaps more so than he'd like.

"I came- I wanted- I have to-"

"Ask for my blessing?" The Captain fills in watching Sam play with his watch. He looks more panicked than Derek did all those years ago.

"I- yes," Sam breathes. He feels like he's twenty again. And yeah, it's too soon, way too soon. They haven't even muttered those three special words (even though it's painfully obvious) , but he's preparing because it's an inevitability for him. And because Sam has manners, he was raised right, and this is what you do. Sometimes quicker than you want, situations dictating. "I would, someday, like to marry your daughter."

"Ok," The Captain smiles.

"Ok," Sam nods. It was far easier than the interrogation he was prepared for, and even though they're all adults now, he was fearful.

"Pour us a drink Samuel, we have things to discuss."  
  
**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

"It's alright," Addison smiles, trying to assure her boyfriend of barely two months who is staring at her rather skeptically. "I'm fine," she insists, gracefully slipping into a pair of tall black stilettos. She's all class today, her knee-length skirt pressed and clean, the light sweater covering her shoulders devoid of any of Milo's many orange hairs.

"We need to get going," Addison tells him, reaching for the handle on her matching suitcase before her hand is batted away and he's silently carrying it down the stairs for her.

He meets her in the garage and wraps her in a pity ridden kiss, holding her so impossibly tight that she can't help but become overcome with emotion. She gives him a stern shove to serve as the only warning that if he makes her cry through several layers of waterproof mascara there will be hell to pay.

The call came at three this morning, disturbing them both from slumber, and Bizzy's voice was oddly sympathetic and calm. _"It's your father, you need to come."_ And Addison knew it was time to go say goodbye. But before they could even finish their mutual shower and share a cup of coffee another call came. And when Sam relayed the message, from Susan, Addison pulled the brush from her hair and buried herself in his arms for a just a minute before drawing in a strong breath and preparing for the week ahead.

"LAX?" Sam asks, before receiving explicit instructions (that he doesn't need) on how to get to the private airport they are flying out of.

He remembers like it was yesterday.

And though his predictions have been accurate, you can't kiss Addison's wounds and heal them, it has been more pleasant than not. Sometimes he can get her to talk about what's wrong, other times she seals herself off. Sometimes she makes him want to scream, sometimes there's no way to stop her from yelling. But there is more laughter than tears, more stories than silence, and Sam thinks the tangible give-and-take to their relationship is what makes it successful.

At least with this ring burning a hole in his pocket, he certainly hopes so.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

This time her hand isn't wrapped firmly around a bottle of vodka, though there are many spares behind her. It is wound through Sam's, who is rescheduling the practice accordingly since they had to leave so immediately.

And instead of ignoring Susan, she's talking calmly with Naomi, who despite her problem with this very situation, has been very accommodating and friendly.

She still has grave issues with her childhood that she may never own up to, and Naomi isn't over the moon about her and Sam, and may never be. And Archer probably won't even show up to his father's funeral, and Bizzy will be completely catatonic. And Addison knows she will be the one in control, the one picking flowers and caskets and dates and times.

It isn't remotely ideal, and it's been a struggle every single second of every hour, but somewhere in the back of her heart she feels a little flutter distinctly reminiscent of happiness.

And it's enough, finally.

**_~-~-~-~-~-~-~_**

**I can't seem to do anything about missing and/or non-centered dividers, so I do apologize for this website's ridiculousness.


End file.
